


Duct Tape and a Wish

by sixteencrows



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Asthma, Character Study, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, MacCready POV, Platonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:41:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24930103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sixteencrows/pseuds/sixteencrows
Summary: He pats a shaky hand to his chest. “My lungs,” he mumbles hoarsley before reworking his words to something more efficient, “Asthma.”Okay, asthma, that makes sense, I can work with that. Yeah, totally.Crap what am I saying, I don’t know anything about asthma. Sure I know the basic gist of it but what am I supposed to do? Are his lungs collapsing? Does he need to see a doctor? I’ve heard that people used to treat it with something that kind of looked like Jet but I don’t see how that would help in this situation.
Relationships: Robert Joseph MacCready/Male Sole Survivor, Robert Joseph MacCready/Sole Survivor
Kudos: 21





	Duct Tape and a Wish

There are a lot of benefits to using power armor in a fight, but you don’t really need me to tell you that. Take one look at any raider or gunner who’s managed to get one up and running and you know you’re going to be in for a bad time. Even the Brotherhood, with all their pomp and self righteousness, make a pretty intimidating image charging into battle. I guess you _could_ say that they aren’t that good for stealth but I’ve certainly never had any trouble sneaking around while Wilhelm drew fire with his creaking tin can.

The only fault I can really, honestly give them is that they’re pretty slow.

Especially when they have a dead fusion core.

Like right now.

“You alright back there, Tin Man?” I called back to Wilhelm, waiting for him at the top of a small hill that, to him, probably felt like a mountain. His fusioncore gave out half a mile back, not long after we had a run in with some Super Mutants. We were so close to one of his settlements where we could ditch the hunk of metal in safety but with how hard he was breathing even that seemed impossible.

He finally trudged up next to me, the frame of the armor kept him pretty upright but I could still sense the way he slumped inside while he tried to regain some strength. Eventually he responded, glancing down at the Pip-Boy on his arm that he could barely lift. “Not much … farther.” A rattling cough seemed to echo around his helmet. “I can do it.”

“You sure?” I mean what other options are there? We can’t just leave the thing out in the open. Who knows who would find it, and with how powerful it was we couldn’t exactly risk some guy with a spare fusion core making off with it.

Wilhelm took some slow, shaking breaths before responding, “Yeah, let’s go,” and continued on his route. I followed along behind him, rifle in hand, his own strapped to my back (not that the absence of fifteen pounds would really make that much of a difference to him), keeping an eye out for whatever the Commonwealth decided to spring on us next.

It took another forty-five minutes or so for us to arrive at the Abernathy Farm and when we did I volunteered to do most of the talking for him. The guy we spoke to, I think his name was Blake, directed us to a shed where we could store the suit temporarily and handed us some cold-ish purified water before getting back to his family. By this point I was getting a bit antsy to get Wilhelm out of that thing, his heavy breathing never really let up and his coughing had become more persistent even if he tried to hide it around the settlers.

“Alright, man, get outta there before we have to crack you open like an egg,” I said, jokingly rapping my knuckles on the back panel of his armor. Before I had the chance to step back the panel opened with a loud hiss. Wilhelm more fell than stepped out of the back, stumbling on unsteady feet and nearly crushing me to the ground when I tried to catch him.

He’s a big guy, I know this but there are still times when it catches me off guard. He’s already a good head taller than me and when I tried to wrap my arms around his chest from the back it was like hugging a barrel. I knew it wasn’t feasible to help him to his feet so instead I awkwardly hauled him, or at least controlled his falling, to sit with his back to the wall of the shed. Even out of his armor and in the (slightly) fresh air his breathing sounded terrible and I noticed immediately that he is drenched in sweat. His hands were shaking as he tried to remove his glasses, fumbling with them as he leaned his head back.

Something’s wrong.

I’ve been around people when they are out of breath. Heck, most of the commonwealth, including myself, smoke and that definitely doesn’t help when you have to book it away from an angry Deathclaw. This sounds different though.

“Hey uh,” I crouch down in front of him, giving him maybe a foot or so of breathing space, “You holding up okay?” No MacCready, obviously not. With every cough I half expect him to spit out a lung, and his breathing sounds more like a wheeze than anything else. I see the way he’s trying to keep his knees up (well one knee anyway, the other never really seems to bend properly) to support his posture so I scoot forward a little to try and hold them in place. Eventually he’s able to look at me, his eyes have always looked pale and bloodshot but they somehow look worse in this moment. More watery and hazy.

He pats a shaky hand to his chest. “My lungs,” he mumbles hoarsley before reworking his words to something more efficient, “Asthma.”

Okay, asthma, that makes sense, I can work with that. Yeah, totally.

Crap what am I saying, I don’t know anything about asthma. Sure I know the basic gist of it but what am I supposed to do? Are his lungs collapsing? Does he need to see a doctor? I’ve heard that people used to treat it with something that kind of looked like Jet but I don’t see how that would help in this situation.

He must have noticed my moment of panic because I felt him patting my hand on his knee. I look at him again, still holding his chest, and I can hear him trying to steady his breathing. It starts off as the same shallow wheezes but gradually, almost imperceptibly, they try to get a bit longer. Not knowing what else to do I breathe with him, in through the nose, as deep as you can, then back out again. It feels a little bit like the breathing exercises people do to calm their nerves, the kind you do to steady your rifle before taking a long distance shot.

I don’t know how long we sat there for. We were still out of sight of the Abernathys so none of them seemed to notice what was happening. At some point it hard started to get dark, and I reached over to turn on the light on Wilhelm’s Pip-Boy. His breathing was more or less settled though it still seemed to rattle around his lungs on every inhale. Had it always been like that?

His eyes were closed as his head rested against the metal wall behind him. I took this moment of quiet lucidity to just watch him… which sounds creepy but I promise it’s not. 

We’ve been travelling together for a couple months now, he’s even set up a bed for me in The Castle (which is a name far grander than three and a half walls really deserved). I kind of treat it like a little vacation whenever he drops me off there, and while Garvey never really seems to enjoy my presence he does at least tolerate me, and I have come to enjoy getting under his skin a little whenever the opportunity presents itself. Still, we don’t have a ton of downtime together when we’re not travelling or sleeping.

His colour looks a lot better. Even in the yellow light of his Pip-Boy his face looks a lot less red than it did and his hand, still resting on my own, feels less clammy than when he’d first staggered out of the power armor. With his glasses still discarded next to him I can see some scarring around his face. I’ve always known that he had a couple scuffs and dings but behind the wire frames and all the hair I never really noticed how bad it really was. I can count maybe three separate scars, all on his left side. One near the eyebrow, another below his eye, and a third, less linear one on his temple mostly covered by black hair and beard. 

God I wish I could grow a beard like that. Might not let it get as bushy but I would kill to be able to grow anything on my cheeks that wasn’t patchy peach fuzz.

My mouth opens before I can think, a common problem for me.

“So when you left the army, did you swear off barber shops too?”

He chuckles, at least. It’s the first noise I’ve heard him voluntarily make in what feels like hours. There’s silence for a moment, though this time it’s a more familiar kind. “We had to be clean shaven when I served, even our hair was regulated,” he said, voice still hoarse. “I remember shaving twice a day sometimes, it would grow so quickly that I would have stubble before dinner. Got in trouble for it a few times too.” He chuckled again, head lolling forward like a man who just woke up. “Swear I spent so much time shaving that the last thing I wanted to do after leaving was so much as _look_ at a razor - not that Nora seemed to mind.”

“Hm, can’t relate,” I said, self deprecatingly rubbing my goatee. This seemed to draw another chuckle from him that ended in a small cough. I prickled at the sound but Wilhelm settled just as quickly as it had come on.

“I’m uh, sorry if I worried you with all that,” he looks down to the ground, patting a hand in the dirt until he found his glasses again. Instead of putting them on right away he fiddled with the arms as though checking to make sure they weren’t damaged.

“I mean I doubt you did all that on _purpose_ ,” I joked, leaning back on my hands after finally releasing the grip I’d had on his leg.

He was silent for a moment again.

“Have you always had asthma?” I asked, maybe foolishly but what else is new. “I always heard that the Pre-War military was pretty stingy when it came to who joined. Even heard a few stories of guys who would cut off a toe to get out of deployment.”

“Well _that_ is even older than I am,” he responded, thankfully lighthearted. “Military didn’t really care how many toes you had when I joined, you’d have to get more creative than that.” His tone seemed to shift a little. “Still, they wouldn’t have let me join if I had asthma, it developed later. Just another souvenir, I guess.”

Well that casual chat didn’t last long, don’t know what I expected really. “Along with those scars I’m betting?” I tapped a finger against the side of my face. “Shrapnel?”

“You got it,” he rubbed his beard like a cartoon of an old man waxing nostalgic. “Also got a bad knee, some back problems, astigmatism... Had some problems with my blood pressure for a while too. Got some medals out of the deal at least.”

I wanted to give a nervous laugh but it never really came. “Christ.”

“Sorry,” he sobered, returning his glasses to his nose, “Guess that was a lot to drop on you all at once.”

“Nah, it’s uh. It’s all good.” I gave him a friendly pat on the (good) knee while I got ready to stand. “Just didn’t realize you were held together by duct tape and a wish, is all.” He laughed.

Wilhelm made an effort to stand up, but even with the help of the wall he seemed unsteady so I reached down to give him a hand. The sounds of his joints cracking and popping as he got to his feet echoed in my head but I tried to ignore them. “God I’m tired, hope the Abernathys won’t mind if we crash here for the night.”

“They better fricking not,” I replied, situating myself under his arm as we walked back to the farmhouse. “Otherwise we can take those turrets of yours somewhere else.”

**Author's Note:**

> Wilhelm's experiences trying to stay clean shaven in the army is based off of a story from my uncle. He used to shave twice a day, once in the morning with everyone else and then again in the early afternoon. His leading officer caught him shaving and told him off for it and didn't believe my uncle when he said that his facial hair just grows really quickly. The following day he only shaved in the morning then went to see the same guy that evening with several day worth of stubble.
> 
> My uncle was then moved to a different section of the army where being clean shaven wasn't mandatory because his lead officer (general? idk military, should probably learn more about it if I'm going to keep writing Wilhelm) just didn't feel right forcing a guy to shave twice a day. Wilhelm's superiors were not that accommodating.


End file.
